


Not a Monster

by Lif61 (UltimateFandomTrash)



Series: SPN Hiatus Creations 2019 [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean is in here a little bit, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, POV Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester is Loved, but only on the phone, look I was a bit nice for once, there's some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 07:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20542457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateFandomTrash/pseuds/Lif61
Summary: Dean goes on a hunt up in Washington, leaving Sam alone for a week. Sam tries to let loose and enjoy himself.





	Not a Monster

**Author's Note:**

> Written for week 15 of [SPN Hiatus Creations](https://spnhiatuscreations.tumblr.com/).  
Prompt: Sam Winchester.
> 
> Some of my choices about how I wrote this might seem odd, but in one interview Eric Kripke stated that the true music of _Supernatural_ is supposed to be Fall Out Boy and Green Day since that is actually what Sam listens to and Sam is the star. However, since Eric does not know that music and wouldn't know what songs to pick for what scenes, he ended up putting Dean's music instead. So yes, Sammy likes Fall Out Boy, and Green Day! In a panel Jared Padalecki has also stated that that our Sammy likes classical music, so in a fic all about our favorite man, I just had to include that as well. Sam is my favorite character and really means a lot to me, so I hope I did him justice.

Dean was out and would be for about a week, working a case up in North Bend, Washington, something about the town being overrun by child ghosts, and he’d insisted Sam get a break from all this. It had been great at first. He’d blasted his music without Dean around to judge him — Fall Out Boy, Green Day when he had chores to do, when he’d just gotten up, or when it was late and he was drinking some, and a little bit of Beethoven when he was showering (his new favorite had an interminably long name and lasted for nine minutes, but it was genius). He read, not just lore, not just what the Men of Letters left behind, but what he wanted to read: autobiographies, a dissertation written by a lawyer who’d died in Lebanon half a century ago,  _ A Song of Ice and Fire _ . He didn’t finish anything, found himself glad to read without judgement, and just kept switching whenever he finished one part, or a chapter, but it was exciting. He watched movies too — documentaries, then fantasy:  _ Conan the Barbarian _ ,  _ The Fellowship of the Ring _ .

That all lasted about three days, and he didn’t sleep much during that time, and eventually he felt like he needed to do something else, needed to move, needed to use his body. So he set his alarm for 5:00, and he got up early and went running.

It felt good to feel his legs working, to know his heart was pumping blood through him, clean blood, that he could feel the cool morning air in his lungs as birds were starting to twitter and sing, the sun beginning to rise and paint the gray sky through the trees into pink and orange. Sam ran along the paths he’d trodden down by the bunker, and out into the flat wilderness, always alert in case he was attacked. Even now he had a knife on him, strapped to his thigh over his sweatpants, and while he wanted to listen to music he kept his earbuds out, trying to stay alert.

He kept his attention on smells too, sights, any odd shadows.

Being a hunter could mean ending up on the other end of a gun, or fangs and claws.

But he finished his run, spending a good hour outside, watching the sun rise, without getting attacked, and then he went inside to shower, dress, and eat.

Sam went into town after that to grab a smoothie from a small place he knew of. It was a café, experimenting with some new drinks. A lot of southerners weren’t looking for smoothies and healthy eating, but Sam would visit, and they knew his face.

There was a girl there, Kelly, just graduated college with an English degree, and Sam would sit at the counter and talk to her while he had his drink. If Dean had been there he knew his brother would flirt, not really to cause any harm or make any moves, just because it was all Dean really knew how to do, but Sam just hoped Kelly was getting on in life alright. She told him she was trying to apply for a magazine that published over in Kansas City. Not poetry, as most people suspected of women, but dark fiction.

Sam was happy for her, hoped she’d get accepted.

He finished his peanut butter banana smoothie, had been about to leave, and Kelly grabbed his arm.

“Oh, Sam, there’s a blood drive at the clinic today, couple blocks down from here,” she told him, holding out a white pamphlet with black script and a giant cartoon drop of blood on it. “You seem like the kind, healthy type so I thought you might be interested in it.”

Caught off guard, his mind traveling to darker things, his mouth dropped open a bit, and he met her dark brown eyes, not sure how to respond.

A blood drive.

Blood. His blood.

Who would want his blood?

“Uh… thanks.”

He took the pamphlet, and she released his arm, and pat him gently, giving him a sweet smile, eyes almost sparkling. Her hand trailed down to his, fingers squeezing.

And she was interested in him, it would seem.

Sam couldn’t do anything with that. He was too old for her. But it was nice to know people could still be innocently attracted to him. All he got these days were monsters wanting to touch him the wrong way.

“See you around, Kelly.”

“See ya.”

Sam left, staring hard at the pamphlet, and then he made his way back to the bunker to do some research.

“Haven’t tested positive for Hepatitis B or C, haven’t gotten a tattoo or a blood transfusion in the past twelve months, haven’t had intravenous illegal drugs…” Sam listed out loud. The requirements went on. And on.

But as far as he knew he checked them off.

“Huh,” he said to himself, sitting back in his seat in the bunker library, looking at his laptop, rubbing his chin.

“Maybe they should add, ‘haven’t had demon blood.’”

His phone started to ring, vibrating in his pocket, and he pulled it out, answering it without looking at the caller ID.

“Sammy, hey!”

Dean.

Sam forced a smile on his face, though his brother wasn’t there, not wanting his sour mood to leak into his voice.

“Hey, how’s the hunt going?”

“Just salted and burned a seven-year-old who tried to scalp me, but other than that, same old. How you doin’? Everything just peachy keen?”

“Yeah, um… just thinking about doing this one thing. For-for me, and uh, I guess someone else too. Just has me thinking about the past, you know? And the bad.”

Sam wasn’t sure why he was spilling this stuff, and he worried Dean would press more, but he could hear the rumbling of the Impala’s engine, and maybe Dean was too busy for this, maybe this wouldn’t end in an argument, in something horrible and hurtful.

“You want to do this thing, Sammy?”

“I do.”

“It safe?”

Sam laughed. “Anything safe with us?” he joked.

Well, it had come out of his mouth as a joke, but then he thought on it more. If someone got ahold of his blood, a witch, they could use it to hurt him.

But this could help someone, someone who seriously needed it.

And maybe he needed it.

It’d been years.

He was clean.

“Look, I have my hands full up here, but down there, you gotta do what you want to do, you know? You’re my little brother, but you make your own decisions. Sure, you’ve made some shitty ones. But I have too. I left you alone ‘cause you need this. Life’s been too hard on you, harder than it needs to be. It ain’t fair, and you need a break. You need a break from me. I haven’t been good to you lately. So if you want to do this thing, you do it. You got this.”

“Dean—”

His brother’s voice cracked, becoming gruffer, lower with emotion as he cut him off, “Come on, don’t get all Hallmark on me.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem, Sammy.”

They hung up, and Sam gazed over the requirements again.

No demon blood.

There wasn’t any in him. There hadn’t been.

Sam had human blood running through his veins, blood that he could donate.

He wasn’t a monster.

And he was going to help someone.

The needle pricked against his skin, but he stared ahead at the dog poster that’d been hung up in the waiting room where the blood drive was taking place. They’d set up there because it was roomier than the back exam rooms or offices. The nurse doing it was short, a bit plump, and looked about his age, dark hair pulled back in a messy bun. She had a nice smile. Sam broke off his gaze from the golden retriever with its tongue lolling out as she clicked something into place at the inner corner of his elbow.

“You must do this a lot,” she told him. “You’re pretty relaxed.”

“Just used to pain,” he admitted.

“Relax your hand now, honey. And I’m sorry about that.”

His right hand, which had been balled into a fist, he relaxed, letting it rest against the arm of the chair. He just nodded in recognition, and then watched his blood flow through the tube, into the clear pouch, expecting it to be darker, to see black, to see  _ something _ that screamed  _ UNCLEAN! _

There was none of that, and it flowed quickly.

“Nice, and hydrated,” she commented. “Looks like you got good blood, darling.”

Sam gave her a surprised smile, and really, he liked the terms of endearment as well. He was sure she hadn’t forgotten his name, and was just treating him to some southern hospitality, but he liked her. The nurse down by the other end of the waiting room didn’t seem half as nice: blonde, flat-iron straight hair, long nails, with snark, and unkind hands. She seemed to jab one of the donors too hard, and Sam glanced over as he started complaining.

“Oh, don’t mind her. Just hired her a week ago. Normally I wouldn’t have her be doing something like this, but a town this small, we need all hands on deck.”

Sam nodded, and he was starting to feel a bit light-headed. He was too tall to rest against the back of the chair, but he kept looking at the dog poster, or the nurse, or even at his own blood. The sight didn’t bother him. He was just amazed it came out untainted.

Him, Sam Winchester, human, clean, pure.

It was a miracle, unbelievable.

But the facts were right in front of him.

The nurse talked to him, about his interests, about how he stayed healthy (he strictly kept that conversation away from hunting, which really did give him a good workout), and it didn’t just come across as good bedside manners. She was  _ nice _ to him. She cared, even if it was just her job.

Sam felt bad he couldn’t remember her name.

By the time he was all done, tape over his arm, and he was sipping at juice and eating a cookie, he felt pretty damn good about himself.

When he felt well enough to leave, the nurse gently stopped him with a hand to his wrist, and reminded him, “Give your body forty-eight hours to replace the plasma, alright? No running.”

“Alright. Maybe I’ll see you around?” He wasn’t too sure if he actually would since he spent most of his time in the bunker, or on the road, but it was nice knowing there’d be another familiar face in town.

“See you around.”

That night when Sam flopped down onto his bed, he was content. He looked at the tape and gauze on his arm, ripped it off, about to throw it in the trash, and then gave it a hard look.

His blood was soaked into it.

And he wasn’t a monster.


End file.
